It didn’t take me long to attach the cable ends to the power inputs of the laser cannon. I pressed the indicator button on the muzzle; the test light glowed. I tried to lift the cannon but my strength seemed inadequate; instead, breath rasping, I dragged the cannon along the corridor to the midpoint of section nine, outside the hatch to crew berth two, about twelve meters along the corridor from the engine room bulkhead.
All was silent behind the closed hatch to the engine room. As if from a great distance, I observed the scorch marks where the rebels had brazed plates over their damaged hatch.
The cannon was a hybrid weapon, designed for remote control from the comm room, but still capable of manual adjustment.
I pointed it down the corridor.
I snapped on the test light, aimed the beam at a bulkhead. I heard myself humming mindlessly and bit off the sound. Though I knew I must hurry, I sat on the deck, back to the hatch, legs straight in front of me, staring at nothing. Fire flowed through my head. I waited, hoping the pain would recede. It didn’t, but I had no more time. I unholstered my pistol, laid it down, staggered the few steps to the berth two hatch, across the corridor from the cannon.
I slapped open the hatch and lurched inside. A mop was in its usual place in the storage bin. I jammed it into the open hatchway, blocking the hatch from shutting. Then, abruptly, I slid to the deck.
After a time I was again aware of the empty, silent corridor. Cautiously I struggled to a kneeling position, heaved myself to my feet. I found I could no longer lift the duffel; I slid it along the corridor to within a meter of the engine room hatch and quickly retreated. With unsteady steps I made my way back to crew berth two and lifted the caller from the hatch control panel, sat with it by the cannon. “Engine room, this is Captain Seafort.”
The answer came quickly. “About time. A couple more minutes and we’d a started cooking a trannie.” Andros.
“Your food is in a duffel outside your hatch.”
“And where’s the joe brought it down?”
“In the corridor about halfway to section eight.”
“Any stunners? Rifles?”
“A laser pistol, lying on the deck. It won’t be used unless you try something.”
“Yeah? Who’s out there?”
“I am.”
“Jesus Son of God!”
I closed my ears to the blasphemy. “The corridor is sealed behind me, all the way to Level 2. I’m the only one here. I’ve brought you the food, which I swear is safe to eat. Have I kept my oath?”
“Why you?” he demanded.
“It was too important to trust to anyone else.”
“What if we take you too?”
“I suppose you could.” I touched a hand to my fiery cheek, but it only made the pain worse. “Do you want your food now?”
“Yeah. Might as well. I’m sending a trannie for it. He might try to run, but we’ll cover him from here.”
“First let me see the faces of all nine of them.”
“They’re all right, Captain.” He snickered. “You have my oath.”
“Their faces.” After a moment some makeshift catch was released and the engine room hatch swung aside. One by one the apprehensive faces of the transients showed briefly in the hatchway. Then one boy stepped out, darted nervously to the duffel, snatched it, and bolted back inside the hatch.
I picked up the caller. “You have your food. Have I kept my oath, Andros?”
There was a moment’s pause. “Yeah, I guess. Why?”
“Stand aside from the bulkhead, please, so no one gets hurt.”
“No one what?” blared Andros. “What the hell—”
I pressed the firing button. A flare of light sizzled against the bulkhead between the corridor and the engine room. In a moment the laser melted a hole wider than my arm in the thick alloy plates. I shifted the cannon and began burning another hole.
“What’re you doing, you lying bastard? You made a deal!”
“I’m cutting a couple of holes.”
“But you said—”
“I said no one would try to enter the engine room without your permission. Don’t worry, I won’t. And I said only one person would come down to Level 3.” I cut a third hole, widely separated from the others.
“Belay that or the trannies get it now!” he shrieked. “All of them!”
“Very well. No more holes.” I heaved turning the cannon to the open hatch to crew berth two. I pointed the aperture at the outer bulkhead on the far side of the berth.
A face flashed at one of the holes in the engine room, then ducked away. Andros howled, “What the fuck are you up to?”
“Preparing to fire through the hull, Mr. Andros.”
“What?”
“You heard me. My hand is on the firing button. It won’t take much of a twitch to depress it, so if you shoot me I believe I’ll set it off as I fall.” My heart pounded so hard I found it difficult to speak.
His voice held a note of panic. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to blow a hole in the hull, Mr. Andros. Isn’t it obvious?”
“But—you’ll decompress us!”
“Yes. Crew berth two, the section nine corridor, and the engine room. Everything else is sealed off.”
“You won’t get away! I’ll burn a hole through your suit.”
“I have no suit.”
“Then you’ll die too!”
“Yes.” My tongue was thick around the word. It was what must be. Though part of me struggled to live, I’d accept the end as a blessing. I had fouled up so often, and Amanda waited.
“Jesus, you’re insane!”
“I may be. It doesn’t matter. You’ve shown me that.”
“I’m gonna kill the trannies!”
“They’ll be dead in a few moments anyway.”
“We’ll cover the holes!”
“The cannon fires the moment you touch the first hole.”
The speaker clicked off but I heard a commotion through the holes in the bulkhead. A demand, a reply. An argument. Someone shouted, “There’s only two suits in here!”
I said to the caller, “It’s time now. I’m ship’s chaplain. Would you like me to shrive you?”
Andros shouted, “Wait! What do you want?”
My burn hurt worse than ever. “To have this life over with.” It was no more than truth.
A silence. Then, “You’re bluffing. You might kill us, but not yourself. Go ahead.”
“I’m going to pray first. I’ll give you a few seconds warning. I’ll be about half a minute.”
I knelt on the deck, keeping the cannon between myself and the engine room. I kept my hand on the firing button.
I said aloud, “ ‘Trusting in the goodness and mercy of Lord God eternal, we commit our bodies to the deep—’ ”
In the engine room, a gasp of horror.
“ ‘—to await the day of judgment when the souls of man shall be called forth before Almighty Lord God—’ ” I faltered, my voice failing. I finished the prayer in silence. “Amen.” I stood. “Twenty seconds.”
“Jesus, Seafort, don’t!” Clinger shouted, “It’s a bluff, Andy!”
“Ever see a man die that way? Gimme that helmet, damn you!”
“Naw, one goes, we all go! Only fair way.”
“Fifteen seconds.”
“God, I don’t want to die!”
“Shuddup, joey, no one’s gonna—”
“Ten seconds.” My hand tightened around the firing button. I fought the urge to hyperventilate.
“Goddamn it, Clinger, don’t be yellow, he won’t—HUNGH!”
Clinger screamed, “Wait, Captain! Just long enough to talk! CAPTAIN!”
I felt as if summoned from a great distance. “Talk about what?” My voice was dull.
“Don’t blow the hull, Captain. You’ll kill yourself too.”
“Is that all?”
“Don’t you care?” he cried.
“Not that much. Like Andros said, we
’ll all be dead soon.”
“What if—what—”
I stared through the crew berth to the hull. “Ten ... Nine.”
“What if we trade you the trannies?”
“Eight ...” He had said something important, but my mind was too foggy to concentrate. “What?”
“Trade you the trannies for leavin’ us alone. We stay down here, you take the rest of the ship.”
I mulled it over. “I don’t think so, Andros.” I was very weary now. “My way is better.”
“I’m Clinger. It’s those damn trannies you wanted, Captain. Don’t you remember?”
“Remember?” I echoed. His voice was in a faraway dream. “Where’s Andros?”
“I bashed him with a pipe wrench. Look, you tricked us. You worded your oath funny, and you fooled us. Now, the trannies ain’t important. So we give ‘em to you, and you let us be.”
“Why?”
“So you’ll live!” he shouted.
The word had no meaning. Something wasn’t right inside my head. The bulkhead seemed to loom and recede, perhaps in time to my heartbeat.
“Captain.”
The bulkhead had a strange texture.
“CAPTAIN!” His shriek snapped me awake. “Don’t pass out, sir, you’ll press the firing switch!”
“Right.” I nodded, but the motion sent waves of nausea through my upper body.
“Captain, call someone to help you. We’ll give you back the trannies, you promise not to try anything else. Just leave us be.”
“I mustn’t ... I have to control ship.” My tongue was thick.
“Think, for God’s sake!”
I tried. The mists cleared a bit. “Surrender.”
“Why, so you can execute us? Why should we?”
“That’s true.” I squinted at the far bulkhead. “It’s best to blow the hull.”
His voice was patient, as with a child. “Captain Seafort, you’ll kill the trannies that way. You wanted us to free them.”
“Yes. Surrender.”
“Will you have us executed?”
For armed rebellion in wartime? “Of course.” His question made no sense.
“So we’d have nothing to lose. You have to give us a reason to give up.”
I was dizzy, but I was thinking again. “I can’t negotiate with you. Exert authority and control, and all that. That’s why I’d better die.”
His voice shook with frustration. “This ain’t negotiating control, you lunatic! You’re just taking our surrender! Shut up, Sykes, we’ve lost, can’t you see? Captain, no trial, no execution. You get back your ship. We’ll stay in our section, do what we want.”
I fought against blackness. “Not the engine room.” Each word was an agony. “Somewhere else. Section four.”
“You tricked us once; what if you did it again? We keep the power lines as security.”
“No tricks. Take you to your section and leave you alone. Swear.” I caught myself swaying.
I heard voices buzzing. Then, “All right, we agree. On your oath. Call someone down to help you, before you kill us all.”
“Oath. Swore no one else.”
Clinger said urgently, “Forget the frazzin’ oath! Get someone to help before you keel over!”
I said hoarsely, “Dray. If you can hear me, come down. Section nine.”
Eons later the hatch slid open. A suited figure clumped into the corridor. Kneeling, I struggled to stay erect as the figure loomed. A hand settled over mine on the muzzle of the cannon, and fingers gently pried mine from the firing button. I sagged.
“Send the trannies out first,” someone said. “I’ve got my finger on the button, and I don’t give Christ’s damn whether you live or die. Or whether the Captain does.”
“All right, Chief. Take it easy.” The hatch swung open. One by one the frightened, subdued transients emerged, blinking as if in bright light.
One threw herself at me, hugging me fiercely as I knelt. “Cap’n! You hurt! What dey doin’ you, Cap’n?”
“Annie?”
Dray snarled, “You, Jackboy! And you, girl. Take hold of the Captain and carry him through the hatch. That’s right, slap open the hatch control. Into the next section, all of you. Now shut it.” The ceiling moved in great lurches, swinging back and forth. There was tight pressure under my arms.
I lay passively, in a dreamlike state. My cheek hurt hardly at all. I heard the gentle hiss of a section hatch. Other hands seized me. I floated up the ladder.
Philip Tyre’s face wafted into view. “Oh, Lord God! Take him to the infirmary.”
I said slowly, distinctly, “The bridge first.”
“But—”
“Bridge.” A few moments later I was eased into my chair; I gripped the hand rests. I felt hot and dry. Philip stood nearby, poised to cushion me if I fell. His anxious eyes roved. On the deck Eddie Boss groaned and tried to lift himself. Walter Dakko, rifle in hand, waited.
I gestured to Eddie. “Send him back to quarters.”
Philip contemptuously nudged the young sailor with his boot. “To the brig, you mean. Right away, sir.”
“Crew berth.”
“But he’s up for court-mar—”
I heaved myself to my feet, swaying. “Dakko. Out.” I waved at the hatch. Walter Dakko left swiftly, eyes grim. On Philip’s nod he shut the hatch behind him.
I said carefully, shaping each word, “Why would you court-martial him?”
Philip gawked. “He tried to kill you.”
I shook my head. “He ... fell down.” I staggered, caught myself.
“He went for your throat,” Philip cried. “I had to stun him before he strangled you!”
Eddie Boss hauled himself into a sitting position, propping himself against the console.
“I didn’t see it.”
The young middy was almost in tears. “Captain, you’re not well! He tried to kill you, don’t you remember? He can’t get away with that!”
I took a clumsy step toward him. Another. I backed him to the bulkhead, my eyes blazing. I leaned close. “I ... am ... your ... superior ... officer!”
“Yes, sir!”
“He fell!”
Philip was white.
“Say it!”
The boy’s eyes flicked to Eddie Boss, back to mine in betrayed reproach. He stammered, “Sir. The—the sailor must have stumbled. He struck his head and passed out.”
“Very well.” I turned carefully. “I’m going to the infirmary now. Something ... seems to be wrong.” With great dignity I took two steps toward the hatch.
Behind me Philip said in a small voice, “I’d like to help you, please.” I nodded; his arm came tentatively around my chest. As I trudged, resting my weight on his shoulder, I could see the glistening of his tears.
PART III
August 7, in the year of our Lord 2198
14
THE WARMTH OF THE scalding tea seeped through the thick porcelain until I was forced to shift the cup back and forth between my hands, until I had to set it down on the swing-arm table by my bedside. Elena Bartel smiled from the foot of the bed.
“I’ll wait a few minutes,” I conceded.
“The anticipation will do you good.” Her tone was shy.
I smiled cautiously, feeling the skin stretch. It had been, they told me, three days since I’d tottered to the infirmary clutching Philip Tyre like a castaway his oxy tank. My burn was infected, and my frantic exertions had pushed my fever near the point of no return.
Philip, Walter Dakko and Kerren had huddled in consultation, while Kerren directed their efforts to subdue my infection. The harried midshipman appointed Dakko and Bartel my attendants and left to run the ship; Lord God only knew in what state I’d find our affairs when I could return to the bridge. I consoled myself that Philip couldn’t do much worse than I’d managed on my own.
I gazed wistfully at the teacup, wondering how soon I’d be able to hold it. Despite frequent applications of the medi-pulse, my wound smarted, a
nd the steam of the tea would soothe, the cup under my nose, the clean warm vapors inhaled. It recalled Father sitting with me during my childhood fevers, his dented old copper teapot and a sponge bath the major weapons in his medical arsenal. It was, I suppose, the only tenderness I’d ever known from him.
I leaned back on the pillow and stared through Elena, trying to penetrate the haze of the preceding days. I’d lain sweating and shivering while my fever spiked, fading into drugged sleep when the medications took hold. At other, more clear-headed times I fretted over my abandoned duties.
Knowing we were shorthanded, I countermanded Philip’s order that Elena or Walter Dakko be with me at every moment. “The buzzer is by my hand, Ms. Bartel. If I need anything I’ll signal. Report back to Mr. Tyre.”
“No, sir, I won’t do that,” she’d said calmly.
“But—”
“I’ll get the midshipman.”
A few minutes later Philip Tyre appeared, saluted, listened to my curt instructions. “Sorry, sir, but she stays. Or someone else, if she makes you uncomfortable.”
For a moment I was speechless. “You realize what you’re saying?”
“Yes.” An awkward pause that seemed to last forever. “Sir, I’ve relieved you until you recover. It’s in the Log.”
Stunned, I fell back against the pillows. Relieved? Naval legends recounted braver men than I who’d quailed at such an act, endured misery and worse before taking the fateful step for which they might easily be hanged.
The Captain of a Naval vessel was more than an officer. He was the United Nations Government in transit; relieving him was akin to revolution. In my despair I’d asked Philip to perform that very act, not all that long ago. Yet now all I could feel was outrage.
“Only until you recover,” he repeated, with an unspoken plea for reassurance, and stubborn determination. “Otherwise you’d be out of bed as soon as your legs would hold you. Maybe sooner. We can’t take the risk; you’re needed too much.”
“I see.” I glowered, unforgiving.
“When your fever stays down two days in a row, and your blood count is back to normal, Kerren says.” Philip’s blue eyes were troubled. He forced a smile. “Meantime I’ll do my best, sir.”
And so he’d gone to the bridge while I remained in the white cubicle, staring at the muted lights, subject to the inexpert ministrations of Walter Dakko and the anxious pale young woman.
Challenger's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 2) Page 28
